Chapter 19
GRACE
My phone buzzes while I’m sitting on the edge of my bed, surrounded by half-empty laundry baskets and unopened mail that all appear to contain bills. I stare at the name on the screen for a full three seconds before I finally answer. “Hello?”
“Grace Montgomery,” a smooth male voice says. “I’m so glad you called me back.”
There is something about his tone that makes my spine straighten.
It’s not unpleasant, just practiced. However I’m admittedly suspicious about this whole situation.
I mean, social media is ripe with scam artists looking to take advantage of people.
The minute I hear him utter the words “Just wire over the money and we’ve got a deal,” I’m outta here.
“This is Victor,” he continues. “I came across your photos online. You have a very marketable look.”
My heart gives an embarrassingly hopeful little flutter. “Thank you.”
“I work with several major publications,” he continues. “Lifestyle magazines, digital editorials, print features. It all depends on the campaign and how the images turn out.”
“So, you don’t take pictures for one brand in particular?”
“No. We try to take a bunch of clean shots that could be used for any number of things. With your flawless skin tone, you’d be a real draw to any of the women’s magazines to pair with articles on skin or even hair care.”
“What kind of modeling would this be?” I ask.
There’s the slightest pause. “Think of it more as… curated imagery,” he replies. “The intentional editing and organization of visual content to convey a specific theme, brand, or story. It could be used in conjunction with online or print articles.”
Which answers nothing. He seems very informed on the matter, even if it sounds as if he’s reading from a cue card.
Heck, I was more curious if he was doing headshots, casual wear, bikini…
that kind of thing. Clearly, I’m not cut out to be a model if I don’t even know the right questions to ask.
Hopefully this isn’t some random dude who stalked me off of social media.
“You realize I’m not very tall. Don’t most models have to be super tall?”
He chuckles. “That’s more for the runway. Not necessarily for the editorials we shoot. They don’t know how tall you are lying down."
I flinch. That sounded odd.
“I’m based in Las Vegas,” he adds casually. “If you’re interested, I’d like to fly you out so we can shoot properly.”
My breath catches. Las Vegas. I’ve always wanted to go to Vegas. “You’d cover that?”
“Of course. Travel. Hotel. Meals. My clients expect a certain standard.”
This suddenly feels real. Too real. The kind of real that only happens in movies or to people who aren’t worrying about rent.
“I’d like to keep this private for now,” I say carefully.
“That would be wise,” he agrees quickly. “It’s always best to wait until we see how the images perform.”
He quotes a number. A number that has me choking on my own saliva for a moment. “That would be your compensation for the initial shoot,” he says.
I swallow. Hard. That amount could float my rent. Pay for Mom’s prescriptions. Hire help. It could simply let us breathe again.
“Yes,” I say before fear can catch up. “I’m interested.”
“Excellent,” Victor replies smoothly. “I’ll have my assistant send your itinerary.”
When the call ends, my phone feels warm in my palm.
I sit there for a long moment, staring at it, my heart hammering.
I can’t tell Tuesday. I can’t tell Mom. Not yet.
Because something about this feels like the beginning of everything changing, and I don’t want to jinx it before I know whether it’s real.
But as I lie back on my bed and stare at the ceiling, hope unfurls quietly in my chest.
Maybe things are finally turning around. A win for the good guys. And somewhere in the back of my mind, a tiny voice whispers:
Please don’t be too good to be true.
Ben
Milton’s voice crackles through my phone, warm and familiar in that way older men have when they’ve spent a lifetime learning how to sound reasonable while applying pressure. “So,” he says, “about dinner.”
My jaw tightens. “Dinner?”
“With you and Grace. I would love to meet with you two again to go over a few things. We’ve tried a few times now.”
“Right. Yes. It’s just… our schedules have been—”
“Busy,” he finishes gently. “Everyone’s busy, son.”
I rub my temple. He isn’t wrong. I’m just also a liar.
Milton discontinues with the small talk this time. “Ben,” he says quietly, “we’ve had another offer.”
My spine straightens. “Oh?”
“Cash. Clean. No contingencies.”
There it is. “And?”
“And before I entertain it, I wanted to call you.”
My stomach tightens. “You did?”
“Yes. I want to know if the two of you are still planning to build a life here or if this is simply business.”
I swallow.
“I liked Grace,” he continues. “How she spoke about wanting to be a nurse. And you are going to be running this inn. I love that the two of you are planning to contribute to the community, not just profit from it.”
The community, the hotel, the future I accidentally invented with a woman I don’t even know, much less have a relationship with.
“This place deserves to go to people who will stay. Not flip it. I need to know I didn’t misjudge you.”
My voice comes out quieter than I intended. “You didn’t.”
“Then let’s have dinner,” he encourages. “Soon.”
I feel like I’m at a crossroads here. How long can I continue this charade with this kind old man?
As badly as I want this property, lying to him in order to get it feels wrong.
It’s clear. I’m no ruthless business tycoon who can close a deal regardless of the obstacles before me.
I drag a hand down my face. “I can’t,” I admit.
There’s silence. “You mean you won’t,” Milton corrects. “And that tells me everything I need to know.”
My heart slams into my ribs. “I’m sorry, Mil—”
My phone vibrates, and Max’s name lights up the screen. Perfect timing. Or terrible.
“I’m so sorry,” I say quickly. “I’m afraid I have to take this.”
He exhales. “You have forty-eight hours, Ben. After that, we move forward with the other buyer.” The line goes dead.
I stare at my phone, chest tight. I switch calls feeling crushed by this impossible situation. “Hey, Max.”
“Hey,” he says lightly. “Just thought you should know… the girl you mentioned? She booked a flight.”
My pulse spikes.
“Booked where?”
“Vegas.”
The walls feel like they’re closing in. First I’m losing this property, now Max has located Grace only to discover she’s leaving.
“And, Ben?”
“Yes?”
“She leaves tomorrow.”